I accepted the cup. The metal was cold against my palms. I took the smallest sip. It burned like fire down my throat.
“To surviving another year,” Eira said, clinking her cup against mine. “To fire against the dark.”
She tipped her head toward Veyrion with a wicked grin. “And to reminding my brother that no matter how fearsome he acts, I can still drink him under the table.”
Veyrion arched his brow, settling back. “Is that what you’re telling yourself? I recall last Yule ending with you face-down in the snow, singing bawdy songs to the moon.”
Eira sputtered into her drink, cheeks reddening. “That was one time.”
“One time too many,” he countered smoothly. “The Jarls are still telling the tale.”
Their laughter rang through the hall—effortless, familiar. It tugged at something raw in me. For an instant, I saw not warriors and rulers, but a brother and sister bound by blood, teasing and steadying one another as naturally as breathing.
My chest ached. I remembered Maliea. Her laughter had been different—softer, but just as insistent, spilling like sunlight through kelp forests. She had always tugged me into mischief, shielding me when our mother’s gaze grew too cold. Maliea had been the only one who made me feel less alone.
Eira leaned back in her chair, gesturing to the pine boughs, herbs, and ribbons scattered across the table. “It lasts for three days. Each with its own rite.”
I tilted my head, curiosity tugging me forward. “Three days?”
Eira nodded, eyes bright. “On the first night, we honor the dead.”
“The second day,” Veyrion said, voice steady, “is the feast. Mead without mercy. Gifts exchanged. Oaths sworn. And the Yule Boar.”
“Ooh, yes.” Eira added, her grin widening.
“Evergreen-bound,” he continued. “Every soul in the hall lays a hand on its hide and swears an oath—vengeance, glory, protection.”
Eira’s smile turned fierce. “The boar is sacrificed. Its blood for the gods. Its flesh for the feast.”
“A vow sworn on the boar,” Veyrion said quietly, “binds tighter than any chain.”
“And the lights,” Eira cut in, grinning. “When the sky burns green and violet, the gods are watching. So we burn our fires bright enough for them to see us.”
She lifted her cup. “After that? Chaos. Wrestling, drinking, broken pride. We celebrate. We endure. We remind the dark that it can't take our fire.”
“And the third?” I asked.
“The dawn,” she said, reverent now. “We keep the Yule flame alive through the longest night. When the sun rises, every hearth is lit from it anew. Whatever survives the night carries luck into the year to come.”
I gripped the cup tighter, my throat suddenly dry.
Three days. Three rites. Memory, revelry, rebirth.
And though part of me bristled at being drawn into their world, another part ached with longing. Maliea would have loved this. She would have sung herself hoarse on the second night and whispered a vow to the dawn. She would have belonged here, effortlessly.
I swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure I ever could.
Eira shoved a pile of pine boughs toward me. “There. Enough standing about looking pretty—make yourself useful.”
“Useful?” I repeated, unsure.
She pointed to the piles of evergreen, sprigs of holly, and crimson ribbon. “With the decorations, of course. Gods know Veyrion won’t lift a finger—he only glowers while the rest of us do the work.”
“I do not glower,” he said dryly.
Eira ignored him, already gathering another bundle of evergreen. She shoved it toward me. Resin stuck to my fingers. “Wreaths first.”
“I don’t…” My throat tightened. “I don’t know the traditions. I’ve never celebrated Yule. I’ll only ruin it.”
